There we were. Two veteran Metalheads standing in the middle of a mostly empty Country Music Hall in downtown Nashville, Tennessee. Music wasn't the reason for our trip but when you are in a town rich with music history you can't ignore it.
Ernie and I had flown into Nashville to begin our 5 day, 5 state golfing excursion. Our plan: Gobble up states for the friendly "golf in all 50 states" bet we had going with some friends, detour to the venerable Jack Daniel's Distillery like moths to a flame and "bookend" our brief trip with another legendary music town, Memphis ... But first there was Nashville.
We only had one night in Nashville. It wasn't a priority. It was our port of entry and a launching pad for our crusade. But hey, it's still Nashville. So, after checking in to our hotel and inhaling dinner we set out to search for a brief but fulfilling Nashville experience. It didn't take long. Walking through downtown we ended up in front of a window filled with neon signs advertising Budweiser, line dancing and a mechanical bull. We stood side by side staring at the window like two kids in a Norman Rockwell painting. Surely Dolly Parton and Garth Brooks must be hanging out here tonight. So what if the closest thing to a country music song I know is The Theme from the T.V. Show "Rawhide," thank you, we'll become the Dukes of Hazzard by osmosis in this place. In we went.
Visually, the place didn't disappoint: Huge wood dance floor. Horseshoe shaped bar. Bull machine. Honey Tonk vibe. You could picture Willie Nelson on the stage and Reba Macintyre hanging out at the bar. (I'm running out of country music star names very quickly). The problem was, nobody was there. The joint was almost completely vacant. 2 or 3 customers and no band. The mechanical bull sat neutered and silent. I guess a Wednesday night in late July was not the peak country music night in Nashville. We downed a few Jack and Cokes and rationalized that we should get a good night's sleep anyway so we could hit the road early in the morning. The whole South was waiting for us.
The next morning was a perfect Southern Summer day. The sun was beaming and it was hot but not unbearably so. We completed our tour of Nashville by visiting a few key spots and gazing across the river at the shiny new football stadium built for the infant expansion football team, The Tennessee Titans. Ernie's lifelong loyalty as a New York Giants fan is surpassed only by his impulsivity. He decided right then and there that he would become a Titans fan. (It lasted six months). We swung by a souvenir shop, bought Ernie a Titans hat and set down the yellow brick road that led to our personal Emerald City, the Jack Daniels Distillery.
Today was the day! We had 5 states to golf in 5 days but our route led us first to Lynchburg. Well, almost first. As a desperate attempt to infuse some minuscule amount of culture in our trip we stopped at a historical Civil War battle site which was directly on the path to Lynchburg. Our anxiety would not have allowed any detour which would have significantly delayed our arrival at Jack's home, but our route took us practically straight through the battlefield; so we could afford a brief viewing. And brief it was. We got out of our rental, took a few steps and looked around. Ernie fell on the ground near a cannon and played dead while I snapped a photo and back into the rental car we went.
Our anticipation built with every mile. We drew closer and closer to Lynchburg. We could feel it in our bones. (And see it on the street signs). We schemed and planned. We daydreamed and imagined. We couldn't wait to find out what spectacles awaited us. And most importantly, we couldn't wait to taste the Jack Daniels directly from the source. We figured that it couldn't get any fresher than straight from the distillery. We wondered whether we would be able to taste all the different varieties of Jack Daniels. Perhaps they even prepare a special batch for the visitors.
As we got closer to Lynchburg, we burned a hole in the floor of the car as we urged it along with our running feet, Flintstones style. After an endless amount of miles, the moment was finally upon us. As we pulled into the parking lot at the Jack Daniels Distillery we practically launched out of our seats as the car was moving. We almost forgot to stop and park the car.
We looked around, soaking in the aura of this mystical place. Giant warehouses smirked at us knowingly. The thought of their contents warmed our hearts and heightened our senses. We floated to the Welcome Center and signed up for the tour. We glanced around, looking for samples or Jack for sale. Surely there must be some special taste of Jack Daniels available to welcome us "home". Nothing was evident. I guessed that they saved it all for the end of the tour, ushering us into the always-present "gift shop" where a small taste would whet our desire to spend money on Jack.
We gathered for the tour. After a few minutes of anticipation, a man introduced himself as our tour guide. I don't recall his name but I remember that he certainly fit the part. He looked a bit like an extra from the movie "Deliverance". But he was nice and we hung onto his every word.
After a brief well rehearsed introduction by our guide in his southern drawl, we were off and running. The group consisted of Me, Ernie and approximately 10 other guests. The other guests were a necessary part of our journey. They were like Golem accompanying Frodo and Samwise to Mordor. We didn't even need to meet them to know that they couldn't have the loyalty and passion for Jack Daniels that we had. They were probably just passing by and stopped on a whim. There was no way they stuffed belongings into sacks, boarded magical flying machines and provided payment and collateral for the use of a motorized vehicle like we had. They couldn't have crossed cultural borderlines and sacrificed days of their busy lives just to pay homage to the man and the legend both known as Jack Daniel(s). They were there incidentally; we were there with purpose.
As our tour advanced, our guide led us through the various buildings and sites which make up the grounds of the distillery. Each stop led us through a new stage of the process: The limestone cave which is the source of all the water used to make Jack Daniel's ; the pallets of wood waiting to be transformed into charcoal; the massive vats where the early mixture is distilled and seeped through said charcoal to mellow the taste; the locked up containers displaying the resulting immature mixture they call "Baby Jack"; the Barrelhouses where the Jack is aged in wood barrels until ready for consumption; and finally the century and a half old safe that was Mr. Jack's doom. (Legend says that he kicked the safe when he couldn't remember the combination. The resulting infection eventually killed him.)
All the while, the sights and smells seeped into our bodies. Our craving for Jack slowly simmered and built to a boil. It was a hot southern summer day and the heat and humidity did their part to build our thirst. As we moved through the stages of Jack preparation we salivated like babies watching our mother prepare a bottle. We didn't want the tour to end yet we couldn't wait for the opportunity to finally taste the fresh Jack Daniels. It would be like nothing we had experienced before. A golden elixir to sate our desire. Finally the time came. We returned to the reception center where our tour started. I glanced around as our guide gave us his concluding remarks. I was looking for the tasting cups - maybe little shot glasses filled with gratis Jack. Maybe a bar where we could order more. We had made it through the Sahara - past all the forbidden oases. Now it was time to visit the Sultan's tent.
I didn't see any tent. No shot glasses. No bar. Not a single bottle of Jack Daniels anywhere. Maybe there was a different room. I raised my hand and asked our guide. "Where do we get to taste the Jack?" The response was like a right jab from Mike Tyson, "There is no tasting, Son. Don't you know that Lynchburg is in a dry county? You can't serve or sell alcohol anywhere in Moore County."
What?!?! How can that be? The very birthplace and continued home of Jack Daniels is in a dry county? Oh, the irony. Oh, the agony. Oh, the absurdity! This wasn't right. This couldn't be. I understood how dry counties still existed in the South but wasn't there at least some special dispensation for the distillery from the Tennesse Governer or the Pope or someone? Apparently there wasn't. And there we were, surrounded by Jack of all forms, unable to taste any of it. Our tour passes hung around our necks like the Ancient Mariner's albatross. "Jack, Jack everywhere and our saliva glands did shrink. Jack, Jack everywhere nor any drop to drink" ...
(Edit 4/26/2024: Several years later, the distillery was granted an exemption to allow for tasting tours.)
(to be continued)
